


Near Fantastica

by spacemonkey



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen has reservations about leaving TDS. Written in 2006</p>
            </blockquote>





	Near Fantastica

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually my very first Daily Show fic, and it's a bit green haha, but I like it.

Glancing at the clock, I realize with a sigh that it’s after midnight. A smarter man would have managed to get home by now.  
  
 _So you’re stupid._  
  
Or ridiculously lost amidst a pile of paper that seems to be spawning.  
  
 _More likely stupid._  
  
Stephen enters my office with a stunted knock and I nearly shit myself. Apparently, I wasn’t the only stupid one in the building.  
  
I raise an expectant eyebrow at Stephen and watch as he stands in front of my cluttered desk, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. The way he’s panting, he’s either come from a marathon or an orgy. I hope it’s the first one —how dare he go to an orgy and not invite me— and I’m tempted to ask how the marathon he hadn’t just run had went but I bite my tongue and continue to stare instead.  
  
 _Like he’d invite you to the orgy anyway . . . Wait, why are you suddenly associating Stephen with_ orgies?  
  
The silence stretches on, so long that Stephen’s cheeks return to their normal colour, his chest stops heaving, and I realize that I’m supposed to make the first move.  
  
 _Just with the conversation, nothing else, Mr. Big Shot._  
  
I venture forward with a simple, “yes?” and Stephen finally springs into action with an exasperated sigh.  
  
“Is this crazy?” he asks suddenly, and I bite my tongue again.  
  
“Is _what_ crazy?”  
  
 _Maybe he’s been listening to your crazy thoughts?_  
  
Stephen lets out another sigh, makes an inarticulate gesture with his right hand, and walks towards the door. For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to leave, and the part of my brain begging for sanity cheers, but instead he closes the door and I smile.  
  
Fuck sanity.  
  
 _Fuck_ you. _He only wants you for the conversation._  
  
Stephen flops down on my couch, bouncing a bit as if he hadn’t sat there a million times before. Shit, he’d even slept there once or twice, patiently waiting for me to finish up with work so we could go for a beer.  
  
Just _for the conversation._  
  
Those times had been distracting, and I wonder if it was only because of his light snoring.  
  
 _Or the way you noticed that his face smooths out when he’s asleep, you perve!_  
  
“Me, having my own show,” Stephen speaks up, dragging me away from my thoughts. “Is it crazy?”  
  
“What? Of course it isn’t! Why would you think that? Has Rob been making jokes again?”  
  
 _Why blame Rob? He’s not even here to defend himself!_  
  
“Jon, he never made jokes in the first place. More like . . . humorous—”  
  
“Observations,” we finish together, me nodding thoughtfully. Stephen smiles faintly and I have to smile back, simply because it makes his grin grow.  
  
 _And you just love to see him smile._  
  
I get up from my desk and join Stephen on the couch, bouncing just like he had. His grin grows winder still and I feel my ears redden.  
  
“Why do you think it’s crazy?” I ask gently after a short giggle fest. The smile drops from Stephen’s face as he averts his eyes.  
  
 _Is that a hint of self loathing in his face? When the hell had Stephen become me?_  
  
“It’s a lot to do, Jon.”  
  
“Hey, if I can manage a show, then so can you,” I joke pathetically, and that smile — the one that can only be described as charming as hell — returns and brings with it a couple equally charming dimples.  
  
 _You’re pathetic._  
  
“What if I screw it up? What if they don’t like me?”  
  
“Stephen, have you actually _been_ to a taping of the show? People go crazy for you! It’s like fucking Beatlemania out there for you. Girls fainting at the sight of you,” I gesture wildly with my arms, slipping into my announcer voice, “Flashing their goddamn breasts! No one watches the show for me, it’s all for you!”  
  
“See, that’s the problem. When I leave, you won’t have any viewers left,” Stephen quips. I smile.  
  
 _Better. He’s back . And still not yours._  
  
“Well, we’ll still get a few  - you know, the ones who turn their TV on a few minutes early.”  
  
“Waiting for me.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Not for you.”  
  
“No. They might have been watching a movie or something, and then it finished and they, uh, they didn’t want to watch the credits—”   
  
“So they decide they might as well just wait for me.”  
  
“You got it.”  
  
Stephen lets out a laugh, and as usual, I’m transfixed for a moment before blinking away the craziness.  
  
 _So crazy. Completely deranged._   
  
“So, it’s decided? You’re gonna have your own show and I’m gonna be viewerless?” I ask after a long beat. Stephen rolls his eyes, nods and looks at me.  
  
“Of course. I was just PMSing.” I stare blankly at him, then explode into a fit of giggles. “Stop laughing! I was!”  
  
I believe you,” I manage from behind my closed fist, shoulders still shaking slightly. Stephen lets out a sigh that fails to hide his small smirk, then sets his hand on my knee.  
  
 _Calm down, keep your dick in your pants. It’s only a friendly gesture, hotshot._  
  
The breath is knocked out of my lungs at his touch, and for a panicked moment, I wonder whether I’ll miss the ins and outs of oxygen.  
  
 _Ins and outs of oxygen? You a fuckin’ poet?_  
  
But if having Stephen touch me means that I have to give up breathing, I’m sure I’ll be fine with that.  
  
 _Uh, what?_  
  
I blink up at Stephen, and he smiles for the hundredth time, melting me as his soft voice says, “I’m going to miss you . . . guys.” The last word is tacked on as an afterthought —  
  
 _He’s tired, he’s not thinking clearly._  
  
— and the part of me that’s a victim of love songs and erotic commercialism wonders just how much he’ll miss me.  
  
 _Definitely not as much as you’ll miss him, you poetic asshat._  
  
I want to say something funny, but all I can manage is a pathetically squeaked, “I’ll miss you too,” before I lunge, pressing my lips against his like a rabid teenager.  
  
 _The fuck?_  
  
His smile turns into a moan and if he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. And if I’m surprised, then maybe I really am that stupid, but right now, I sure as hell don’t care.


End file.
